


to blind yourself with borrowed light

by saintsurvivor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Stanford Era, short oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: “Have you ever felt…unclean?” It’s an effort to try and get it into words and the hesitation makes Sam stumble over the last word. He’s never told anybody this.





	to blind yourself with borrowed light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unforgvnsam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unforgvnsam/gifts).
  * Inspired by [keep the nightmares out, give me mouth to mouth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13814592) by [unforgvnsam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unforgvnsam/pseuds/unforgvnsam). 



> **Author's Note #1** : This is something I'm hesitant to put up, mostly because I feel like the writing isn't my usual, but the premise of it is something that I've been excited about for so long, but I just haven't been able to write it down into words. For that honour, I blame Jo, whose keep the nightmares out, give me mouth to mouth is a masterpiece and an absolute must-read. There should be a link to the it in the "inspired by" bit, so please so check it out.

 

_most days i am a museum of things i want to forget._

— **E.E. Scott,** from _Every Day I Am Trying New Techniques To Make Myself Disappear_ , published in Shabby Doll House 

The inside of the church is warm, illuminated with softly flickering candles, the slowly fading sunlight falling in through the stained-glass windows, sending shards of crystalline shadows scattering across the floor, glowing softly against the pale stone.

Sam can feel the hardness of the cool flagstone beneath his trousers, biting into his knees and shins. He feels the eyes of Christ watching him, set up high on the crucifix that had transfixed Sam since he’d first saw it all those years ago. It’s been years now, almost four, and Sam feels as if he’s been kneeling here at this altar for all of them, maybe even longer than that.

Coming to St. Michael’s church hadn’t been a conscious thought when he’d first arrived in Palo Alto, California, with nothing but a duffle bag and tears upon his cheeks, his father’s words and broken face still etched into his mind and holy water still wet beneath his tongue. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, no, but it had become a regular past time for him to come to this church, to kneel beneath the watching eyes of the Son and seek guidance and forgiveness.

Sometimes, he doesn’t know why he seeks forgiveness; only knows that he feels like he should. Like he should bare the back of his neck and let The Father seek judgement. He has always been unclean, _impure_ ; maybe this is just a new way of trying to repent for it, to try and cleanse himself from the very inside out. Most of the time, it leaves him empty and hollow, crying out in his mind, trying so hard to think he is worthy of forgiveness, of hearing Him. What’s worse is the sneaking suspicion that he will never be forgiven, _can_ never be forgiven. He doesn’t know why, but he carries it like a weight, an albatross around his neck.

He can hear soft footsteps, echoing on the flagstone, just behind him. They come up beside him and kneel too, falling with a soft sigh. Sam hears them softly recite the Lord’s Prayer, never stumbling over the words. He recognises the voice, has heard it for the past two years, on and off, for all that he doesn’t know the man’s name, it’s become almost as much as a comfort as the church has. He may not know the man’s name; however, he has shared confidences and conversations with this unnamed man, they have knelt here together and prayed. He knows this man, he feels.

“You are early, today.” The man says softly next to him. Sam looks up, not at his kneeling man, but upwards towards the skies, catches the agonized eyes of Christ and feels something break, delicate and fragile, in his chest. The man stays silent besides him.

“Yeah,” Sam says, just as softly. He still doesn’t look at the man, but his peripheral lets him see somewhat messy hair, the slope of his shoulders, the brilliant blue of his upturned eyes. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

Strangely calloused fingers touch his wrist slightly, a barely there touch that has Sam biting his lip, eyelashes fluttering. It’s been so long since he’s been touched so softly.

“Has something happened?” The man asks, and it is still that soft voice, that tender undertone to his voice that makes Sam want to lean into him, to drown in the deep of his voice, the strange presence around him that makes Sam feel _awed_.

Sam doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Just simply kneels there, hands curling tighter and tighter around his legs. He’s going to draw blood soon. One of the candles gutter briefly, sending strange fireshadows across the wall, illuminating the eyes of Christ and leaving them, wide and aflame, staring down upon them both. For the briefest moment, Sam turns his head to look at the guttering flame and feels something rise in his gut; between one moment and the next, those strange wingshadows, stretching and arching, fade between shadows and light. Stranger more, ozone and peppermint linger on the very back of his tongue.

Then; “Have you ever felt… _unclean_?” It’s an effort to try and get it into words and the hesitation makes Sam stumble over the last word. He’s never told anybody this. Never told Dean or his father of the lingering nausea that lingers in his stomach, the feeling of _something dark_ slowly lacing through his entire body, the way he sometimes has flashes of things he can’t explain, the strange outbursts he can’t name.

“On several occasions,” The man says quiet. He reaches out a hand, curls his fingers around Sam’s wrist and brushes against the rough patch of skin and of healing scars. Sam closes his eyes, feels the strange callouses upon the man’s fingers and palm, the lingering electricity just beneath the thin veneer of his flesh. “But the Father has always been merciful, He has always assured me, always forgiven me.”

Sam lets out a shuddering breath, feels his shoulders slowly curling forward. Still, the unnamed man doesn’t let go, simply touches his finger tips to Sam’s wrist still, runs down his palm and squeezes gently, as if he’s unsure of the motion.

“Even,” Sam must pause, clear his throat. He can feel the burn of tears starting beneath his eyes, the tightness of his throat, and concentrates on the bite of flagstone beneath his knees. He has known this for years, has felt it since he was a child, but he’s never voiced it, not even to himself. “Even if you _don’t_ deserve forgiveness?”

The man stills, goes stiff and his fingers tighten briefly around Sam’s hand. He doesn’t say anything for the longest moment, simply just kneels there with Sam. Sam closes his eyes, feels something swell up inside of him and them swell _out_ , soft like wax.

“I may not have known you long,” The man says, eventually. His voice is soft and level, as if he needs Sam to hear what he’s saying. Sam turns to him slightly, can’t bare to look him right in the eye even as something swells between them, like ozone. “But I think, perhaps, you are one of those who _do_ deserve forgiveness.”

Sam isn’t breathing, _can’t_ breathe. He is slowly drowning in his own bile, is going to be swallowed whole by his own emotional upheaval. A large hand touches his shoulder, rests briefly over the smooth expanse of the skin over his heart.

“You must breathe, my friend.” The man tells him, and Sam’s vision is illuminated in oceanic blue eyes, undying and illuminating. The pale gold of sunlight turns them glorious, a shimmer of coin beneath an ocean.

Something that Sam can’t explain filters beneath his skin from where that hand is, it feels like a livewire, like the distant crackle of sheet lightning upon the breeze. He slumps forward, wheezes as the man presses closer, keeps him upright, leaning against the man’s shoulder.

“He loves you, Samuel Winchester,” is whispered into his ear, and a calloused hand strokes slowly through his hair, electric and undying, an unbottled livewire. “This, I can very must assure you.”

Strange shadows fall across them, blocking the pale shaft of golden light from touching them, illuminating on their very edges and something that Sam can barely feel or see, for all it’s weightiness, settles across the mantle of his shoulders, curls him close, keeps him warm, keeps him _safe_.

“He forgives you, Samuel.” The man whispers, and something echoes in his voice, almost muted thunder. Some distant part of Sam is both in awe and terrified. The closest part of him is longing, maybe. Wistful.

“I don’t even know your name,” Sam says, instead of all the ways he wants to look at this man and know what makes him think Sam is worthy of forgiveness, of the Father’s love.

“No, I suppose you do not,” The man tells him, and there is something infinitely fond about the tone he uses. He crouches closer, still on his knees, still pressing close to Sam, as if unable to let go.

“You may call me Castiel,”

Something blooms beneath Sam’s sternum, sweet and aching.

_here i am as a hairpin curve. here i am as cyanide stowed away in an apple seed._

—  **Emily Skaja,**  from “ _Elegy with Symptoms_ ” published in Bennington Review

 


End file.
